Hellfire (5 page)

The ops officer didn’t answer. He was already barking the same question into his phone.

As Danny ran up the tailgate, the familiar stench of aviation gas hit his nostrils. Like all military transport aircraft, the inside of the C17 was entirely devoid of comforts. The pipework and internal frame were all visible on the roof of the fuselage. At the far end of the fuselage were two portable blue toilet cubicles, which could be easily removed when loading cargo. Each seat had a dirty orange lifejacket strapped to the back, and the middle column of seats had been removed. A couple of loadies were securing the SUV to some shackles on the floor to keep it secure and immobile in flight. Danny noted that it was a Range Rover – probably supplied by the Foreign Office – artfully dented in places so that it didn’t look too flash and therefore noticeable, but armoured nonetheless, with toughened glass, reinforced panels and sturdy all-terrain tyres. Despite all that, it would hopefully look unremarkable on the ground. He moved up to the front of the fuselage where two signallers – these were the scaleys Hammond had mentioned – were busily patching their way into the aircraft’s radio system. They nodded a brief greeting at the members of the unit, then continued about their business.

Hammond still had his phone to his ear. ‘We’ve got a problem!’ he shouted. ‘The platoon’s had an RTA en route. They won’t get here for another two hours.’

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Danny breathed. He closed his eyes momentarily. Time to make a call. Did they wait for their support unit and lose precious time on the ground, or did they risk heading in-country without the security of well-prepared, well-armed backup?

It didn’t take more than a moment to make the decision. For a hostage situation, time was of the essence. Every minute they delayed was an extra minute in which the High Commissioner and his aide could be wasted. ‘We can’t wait,’ he announced. ‘Let’s get wheels up.’

The ops officer nodded, but suddenly Tony was in Danny’s face. ‘What about that hostage rescue I did in Sierra Leone last year?’ he shouted. ‘If we hadn’t had Para support, I’d be toast. They put in a cordon, supplied mortar support . . .’

‘Yeah, well this isn’t Sierra Leone,’ Danny snapped back. He looked over Tony’s shoulder at the ops officer. ‘Wheels up,’ he repeated.

Tony shook his head. ‘This op’s going to be a gangfuck,’ he muttered. He glanced over towards Caitlin to check she was out of earshot. ‘And what about the bird?’ he said. ‘She’s just going to hold us back.’

Danny didn’t say so out loud, but he quietly agreed with Tony about that. But Hammond shook his head. ‘She’s trained with Aussie military CT units and tactical assault groups. She’s high up in Australian Special Operations Command.’

‘Yeah, well I hope it’s not her fucking time of the month,’ Tony scowled.

‘Just get on with your job, Wiseman,’ Hammond said, and turned his back on them. But suddenly he turned again and gestured to Danny to join him. They moved several metres from the others.

‘What is it, boss?’ Danny asked.

Hammond looked like he was choosing his words carefully. ‘I made a big call putting you in charge instead of
Tony,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to lie to you. You’ve got a habit of going against the head shed’s wishes, and they don’t like it. They’re watching you. Think of this as a chance to make things good. Don’t fuck it up.’

Without another word, Hammond turned and disappeared back down the tailgate. Danny glanced towards Tony, who was standing five metres away, looking interested. He wandered over. ‘Yeah, Black,’ he said maliciously, ‘don’t fuck it up. What with you and Wonder Woman over there, I’m glad it’s not me that’s been kidnapped.’

There was a slight change in the engine’s pitch as the tailgate closed up. Danny and the unit strapped themselves into the front row of hard seats along the port side of the aircraft. On the ground in front of them was a co-ax cable that the scaleys had hardwired into the aircraft comms. The cable was connected to a black box, into which four sets of headphones, each with a small boom mike, were plugged. They put the headphones on, and Danny winced momentarily as a whine of feedback pierced his eardrums. It died away, and a voice came over the cans: the refined tones of an SF flight crew captain. They always sounded the same – as calm and collected as if they were flying easyJet to Marbella. ‘Afternoon gentlemen, this is Captain Ferguson, we’ll have you airborne in about two minutes. Flight time Brize to Lagos a little shy of six hours. I’m patching you through to Hereford HQ immediately. It’s a secure line, so you can speak plainly.’

A crackle, then a new voice. Danny didn’t immediately recognise it, but that didn’t matter. The important thing was what Hereford had to tell them, not who said it.

‘
This is Zero Alpha, relaying through London. Your unit call sign is Bravo Nine Delta, repeat Bravo Nine Delta. Over.
’

‘Roger that,’ Danny replied immediately. ‘Update us, over.’

‘
We have a confirmed double hostage situation. The British High Commissioner Derek Vance, codename Target Red. His assistant Hugh Deakin, Target Blue. They were taken en route to an oil facility in the Niger Delta.
’

‘What about their security?’

‘
One driver, one member of the High Commission security staff. Both dead at the scene. The driver managed to phone in details of the kidnapping before he died of his wounds. One gunshot to the stomach. The security detail took a shot to the stomach and one to the head.
’

The aircraft had turned on to the runway and was starting to accelerate. The g-force kicked in as the engines roared.

‘We don’t have our Para support platoon, so the Nigerians need to get a cordon in place!’ Danny shouted over the comms. ‘Surround the kidnapping area, block off any escape routes.’

‘
Roger that,
’ replied the voice. ‘
We’re in contact with the Nigerian military to see what assets they can supply.
’

‘Great,’ Tony cut in. ‘I wouldn’t trust the Nigerian military to get a cat out of a tree.’ Privately, Danny couldn’t help but agree. Maybe he’d been too hasty in ordering wheels up. He’d trust 1 Para to close off the area, but a reluctantly provided mob of untrained, unmotivated, under-equipped Nigerian squaddies was a different matter. They wouldn’t give a fuck about a missing white guy.

‘How long since the incident?’ Danny asked.

‘
Three hours twenty-seven.
’

‘They could be miles away.’

‘Actually,’ Caitlin interrupted, ‘maybe not. What was their exact location?’

‘
Twenty klicks west of Port Harcourt. The Nigerians have lent us a chopper to get you out there as soon as you’re on the ground, but there’s poor weather conditions coming in over the Bight of Benin, so you might be delayed
 . . .’

‘I know the area around Port Harcourt,’ Caitlin said. Her hard Australian accent cut through the noise of the engines. ‘It’s a maze – a network of waterways weaving in from the coast. There’s a high incidence of kidnapping in the area because it’s so easy for people to hide there. I’ll bet they’re still in the area, lying low. We need to get that cordon in immediately, then get our boots on the ground. Someone’s going to know where Target Red and Target Blue are.’

‘I agree,’ Danny said. ‘Keep us updated.’

‘
Roger that.
’

The plane levelled out. The voice over the cans disappeared. For now.

17.49 hrs

The C17 had settled into its cruising altitude. The unit had clipped their hammocks to the webbing on the side of the fuselage, but nobody was getting any shut-eye just yet. The captain had come out to shake hands – he’d recognised Ripley from a previous operation – but now he’d returned to the cockpit. The loadmasters had offered them some food. So now they stood around, eating piping hot microwaved lasagnes and drinking polystyrene mugs of sweet tea. None of them knew when they’d get the chance to eat again, so it was time to refuel.

The two scaleys kept a polite distance from the Regiment unit. They were currently working on the Range Rover, fitting an under-seat radio and connecting it to a small aerial on the roof.

‘Hate this shit,’ Tony said through a mouthful of food. ‘Specially when I left half a fucking cow on the barbie back home.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Ripley said. ‘Spud will have troughed it by now.’ And he added quietly: ‘Not all he’ll have troughed, either.’

They’d left Spud and Frances together back at Tony’s place. Tony’s face darkened at the thought. ‘Yeah, well, Spud looks like he’s eaten a burger or two too many to me.’

Ripley immediately jutted out his chin. ‘That’s because every time he fucks your missus, she gives him a biscuit.’

Danny immediately stood between the two men to stop it kicking off. ‘Shut up, both of you,’ he said. ‘None of that shit. Got it?’

Tony obviously didn’t like taking an order. ‘He needs to watch his fucking tongue,’ he said, clearly wanting to get the last word. ‘Someone might cut it out if they don’t like what it says.’ But then he backed down.

Danny drained his tea and looked over to the Range Rover. The scaleys had finished their work. ‘Let’s get the vehicle loaded up,’ he said.

The team finished the rest of their food, then hauled their grab bags over to the car and placed them in the boot. It stank of diesel, thanks to the three jerrycans of fuel that were stashed in the back. Danny noticed that the vehicle was equipped with a hi-lift jack, and a winch mechanism had been fitted to the front. They unrolled their longs from the canvas weapon sleeves, and went through the careful process of loading them with rounds of 5.56s from their ammo boxes, and in Caitlin’s case 7.62s. Then they laid them inside the vehicle: Danny’s and Tony’s along the sides of the doors, Ripley’s and Caitlin’s lengthwise between the two front seats. Cocked and locked, ready if and when they needed them.

18.25 hrs

Danny had a map of Nigeria spread out on his lap. He was examining it closely, committing what he could to memory. Caitlin’s voice snapped him out of his concentration. She was sitting next to him. ‘Bad weather in the Bight of Benin can be a shocker,’ she said.

Danny nodded.

‘You know the old rhyme?’ Caitlin asked.

‘What old rhyme?’

‘Beware, beware the Bight of Benin, There’s one that goes out for forty goes in.’

Danny stared at her for a moment. He found himself wanting to look at the text message from Clara yet again. But his personal phone was back in Hereford. He felt a weird sensation. Not fear exactly. More like apprehension. Ordinarily on a job you didn’t think too hard about the implications of what would happen if you didn’t make it back. But for Danny, things had suddenly changed. He wasn’t just thinking about himself any more.

He turned his attention back to his map.

‘You don’t speak much, eh?’ Caitlin said, her Australian accent sounding very pronounced. She grinned at him. When Danny didn’t grin back, she looked momentarily narked. ‘That’s alright,’ she said brightly. ‘I like the strong silent type.’

Danny looked at her again. Her brown hair was tied back and there were little beads of sweat on her nose. Even in her military gear she was gorgeous. She knew it too. Her lips were slightly parted and her stare was full of meaning.

Before Danny could reply, Ripley had wandered up to them. Caitlin smiled, gave up her seat and wandered over to Tony. Ripley took her place. ‘She’s gagging for it, mucker,’ he said.

Danny sniffed. ‘Not my type,’ he said. Which wasn’t true.

‘You’ve got a type?’

Danny looked back down at his map. ‘I’m back with Clara,’ he said.

Even though he wasn’t looking at Ripley, he could sense his surprise. Ripley knew he and Clara had called it a day, though he didn’t know why.

Danny took a deep breath. ‘She’s pregnant,’ he said. Ripley was the first person he’d told. It felt right, somehow. Ripley lived for his own kids, and was devoted to his missus. In a weird way, Ripley had everything Danny wanted.

A pause.

‘Congratulations, mate,’ Ripley said. ‘You’ll be a great dad.’ He didn’t quite sound as if he meant it.

Danny looked him in the eye. ‘I want you and Spud to be godfathers,’ he said.

Ripley inclined his head. ‘You got it, buddy. Proud to. Let’s get the job out of the way first, right?’

‘Right,’ Danny said.

19.32 hrs

Two hours till touchdown. The unit were all sitting, plugged into their headphones. One of the scaleys called out to them: ‘Incoming transmission.’ Immediately, the cans crackled into life again.

‘
Bravo Nine Delta, this is Zero Alpha, do you copy?
’

‘Go ahead, Zero Alpha,’ Danny said.

‘
Patching you through to the Deputy High Commission in Lagos.
’

‘Roger that.’

A few seconds’ pause. A new voice came on the line. Posh. But stressed. ‘
This is Christopher Manley, military attaché. We’re getting some new information through from the Nigerians.
’